


Court and Sparkle

by GloriaMundi



Series: Sparkly [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Charity Auctions, Community: help_nz, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames' scent was sparkling, glowing, roiling. It didn’t dazzle, but it drew Arthur’s attention like a gleam of something jewelled and precious in the dank ancient mud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Court and Sparkle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msilverstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msilverstar/gifts).



"They took her away," Gül's neighbour said through the narrow space of the opened door. (Arthur could easily have snapped the chain and forced his way in, but that would be rude.) "Early in the morning, last Tuesday. The police came for her. They said she was illegal."

Arthur knew for a fact that Gül would've had all the right papers. She was one of the best forgers he'd ever used. There had to be more to the story than a simple run-in with the Borders Agency. Maybe something he needed to look into, later: he took care of his people. Maybe... but the woman behind the door reeked of fear and ignorance, and he didn't think she knew anything more than what she'd told him.

"Thank you," he said anyway. "Thanks for letting me know." He waited until he'd heard the locks clicking back into place before he bent to slide a crisp new twenty-pound note under the door.

Shit.

Arthur's professional engagements took him all over the world, from cities to villages to remote islands. He was, fortunately, immune to such inconveniences as jetlag: his medical records always showed (erroneously, but cooperatively) that his vaccinations were up to date. Gül took care of that, and made sure that he was never without appropriate visas. So, after completing a political assignment in Westminster -- it was always amusing to exercise a little creativity in these matters -- he'd taken the Tube to Ealing to pay a visit, unannounced, on Gül. At which point his day had taken a sharp downward turn.

He took an indirect route back towards a different Tube station, flipping through his mental Rolodex of London underworld contacts. Arthur's livelihood -- his whole existence -- depended on networking, and London was a melting-pot of criminal skillsets and quasi-legal enterprise.

He should've kept a better eye on Gül, but he'd thought, given her skills and her nature and her semblance of harmless middle age, that she'd look after herself. Likely she'd done just that: likely it simply suited her purposes to appear to be removed from the life she'd constructed over the last twenty years.

But there were plenty of other forgers. That old man in Shoreditch who -- no, he was doing time. Or Cedric down in Greenwich who ran a print-shop: he might be able to point Arthur in the direction of someone new. Or -- hell, Arthur could cut his losses in England, head stateside for a bit, and get the work done there. Getting to Cuba from the States was always a bitch, though. Might as well pluck the strings of his East London network.

* * *

The journey to Greenwich was complicated by Tube closures, and it was mid-afternoon by the time Arthur pushed open the door of the print-shop round the back of the market. He breathed deeply. _Ink. Sweat. Milky tea_. "Cedric?"

"Arthur!" Cedric emerged from behind a grimy curtain, wiping his hands on a rag. "Been a while, mate. What brings you to this neck of the woods, eh?"

Cedric was not, exactly, a criminal. However, he did know a lot of people who _were_ , which was what made him useful. He grinned at Arthur, and as far as Arthur could tell -- there were plenty of tells -- Cedric's pleasure at seeing him was genuine. And yeah, there'd been a time... Cedric was (or had been, when Arthur first met him) a yoga teacher, delightfully flexible. Looking at him now, Arthur tried to work out just how long ago that'd been. Twenty years? Thirty? He'd bet good money that Cedric couldn't get his ankles behind his neck any more.

The curtain rippled in the draught from an open window, and Arthur, about to reply, was distracted by a new and unfamiliar scent. Something fresh: some _one_ fresh, a scent that Arthur hadn't encountered before but wanted very much to encounter again. Soon. Hell, even humans were hooked by smell -- pheromones, perfume, the unique chemistry of the individual -- and Arthur's sense of smell was streets ahead of any normal _homo sapiens_.

The scent was already fading: the person who smelt so amazing wasn't here any more. Arthur set the sense-memory aside for later. "Looking for someone who can help me with some ... document layout," he told Cedric, with a quick warm smile. "You know anyone?"

Cedric frowned. There were more lines on his face than Arthur remembered, but most of them came from laughter. "As it happens, I do," he said. "You just missed him, actually. Chap called Eames, he's--"

Someone outside was shouting: there was the thud of footsteps on the wooden stairs, two angry men in a hurry. Arthur stepped to one side, into the space by the door. He could be inconspicuous when he felt it necessary, and he wanted to see what sort of trouble Cedric had gotten into.

Or what trouble had come looking for him, he amended.

“Where is ‘e?” demanded one guy, a heavyset bruiser, barging through the door and crowding up into Cedric’s personal space. “We know ‘e came up here!”

“We’re looking for a Mr Eames,” said his companion, slimmer and better-dressed and considerably more dangerous. Arthur could smell gun-oil on him, and stale blood. “We know he paid you a visit today. Where is he, then?”

“He just stopped by for a cuppa,” said Cedric, doing a reasonable job of looking unafraid. “Said he was in a hurry. Wanted me to lend him a tenner, but …” He shrugged fluidly. “I’ve lent him a fortune already.”

“Yeah, right. Where _is_ he?” growled the thug, reaching out to grab hold of Cedric. Arthur stepped forward -- probably too quickly for any of the three to register his movement, but Cedric at least had known where he’d _been_ \-- and hooked his hand in the guy’s collar, yanking him back sharply enough to drag a strangled noise from him.

“That’s enough,” he said mildly, not letting go of his prey but addressing the other man. “You’re interrupting. Get out.”

The thug staggered back when Arthur released him, coughing and wrenching his collar loose. His boss looked at Arthur with wary respect, as if he were about to say something: then there was a tinny chime from his pocket, and he scowled.

“Go ahead,” said Arthur, off the guy’s questioning glance. “Answer it.”

 _Mister Crouch? Our boy Eames is headin’ your way_ , said the caller. _He din’t get the dosh, but he got the USB thingy. Down the Thames Path, headin’ west._

“Right,” said Crouch, and pressed the red button to end the call. He flicked another brief, uncertain glance at Arthur, and nodded to Cedric. “Under control,” he said. “Thanks for your time. Sorry to interrupt.”

Arthur waited until they’d reached the bottom of the stairs before he spoke. “So, this Eames: is he good?” _Is he the one I can still smell, like a ghost?_

“The best,” said Cedric. “And he’s a mate o’ mine, so if there’s, y’know …” He jerked his chin towards the door. “...anything you can do to help?”

“Sure,” said Arthur. “Leave it to me.”

He headed east along the river, away from the market and the tourists. London’s ground was rich and ancient. Inhabited for millennia, farmed and factoried and webbed with roads, fertilised and left fallow, built up and bombed. It was redolent of humanity and the detritus that humans left behind them.

When Arthur’d first come to London in Victoria’s reign, just after he’d been Changed, he’d almost gone mad trying to make sense of the city. He’d had plenty of time to learn how to squash his senses down, and move through any city hardly more aware of his surroundings than anybody else. Now he opened his senses to everything around him, hunting.

Sight was the least useful of his senses. Sure, he noticed more than most humans would, but the city was crowded with obstructions, and even Arthur couldn’t see through steel and brick. There was what he could taste, and what he could touch, but both those senses were too local to be any use right now.

There was sound: London’s soundscape with its ceaseless baseline of traffic, the high bleak cry of seagulls wheeling above the span of muddy beach, the distant wail of a small boy being pulled away from a friendly doggie. Each sound was a triangulation point, and their echoes sketched out, in negative space, an architecture of buildings, boats, fences, shrubs, statues.

Listening more closely, Arthur could hear the small nervy movement of rats underneath the pier, squabbling hatchlings in the scoop of a derelict crane, a nest of wasps rustling with mindless life, the operatic duet of two warring housecats on a street to the south. If he were suddenly struck blind, he would still know where to walk, where to turn, where to find an open door.

If sound rendered a blueprint of his surroundings -- careful silver lines limned everywhere, quivering and redrawn each moment as he moved -- then scent afforded a psychedelically vivid rendition of the world. The sugar refinery was loud and bright, like the noonday sun or a trumpet in an echo-chamber. Its glare dimmed the salt-mud smell of the river rippling seaward, the moving point of murky red that was a sick pigeon, the cumin-coffee-candy reek of the market behind him.

Crouch and his henchman were easy to pick out. They moved through a miasma of their own sweat and stench; one of them (Crouch, Arthur decided) had eaten curry in the last twenty-four hours, and the other had dined on pizza. Each odour overlapped and shaded into those around it. And there, _there_ , heading towards them, was Eames -- or the person Arthur had to assume was Eames -- whose scent was like … was sparkling, glowing, roiling. It didn’t dazzle, but it drew Arthur’s attention like a gleam of something jewelled and precious in the dank ancient mud.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the shapes of mazy alleys and dead ends between the river and the road. There, _there_ , a flicker of movement between the warped boards of a hoarding; that was him, that was… It _had_ to be Eames, surely. How many desperate men would be fleeing south on the Thames Path on a muggy London afternoon?

Okay. Crouch and his sidekick coming up from the south-west; Eames heading south on the path. Arthur calculated their vectors, and made the most of shadow and light to get closer to where they intersected. He found a vantage point between a twisted buddleia bush, abloom with blown plastic, and waited.

His quarry came into view. He’d been running hard and he was sweating; now he moved smoothly, comfortable in his body. The suit -- Paul Smith, Arthur decided, probably a good fit a few pounds and a few gym sessions ago -- did nothing to conceal good musculature, honed by careful exercise. And, yeah, he was the source of that strange enticing scent. Arthur inhaled deeply.

“Mr Eames?” he said, just loud enough to carry.

Eames checked, and turned, and looked straight at Arthur. Good reflexes.

“Who the hell are you?”

“A friend,” said Arthur impatiently. Crouch’s thug had a handgun: Arthur could smell the guy’s sweat on the plastic grip. “Come on! They’re armed.”

“Why --”

“I can’t help you if they start shooting,” snapped Arthur. “Come _on_!”

He turned east, not waiting for Eames, and jogged down the alleyway, away from the river. The sides of the alley were corrugated iron, streaked with rust and colourful graffiti. Underfoot, the mud was sticky -- he’d have to get a new pair of shoes after this, but hopefully it’d be worth the inconvenience -- and he could hear Eames coming after him.

“Why’re you helping me?”

“Shut up and run,” said Arthur. Fifty yards away, Crouch’s sidekick was swearing up a storm, fucking this and shitty that. Men who were at the mercies of their tempers were seldom worthwhile opponents. Arthur just wanted rid of them: then he could introduce himself, get Eames somewhere safe, talk business. Or maybe pleasure, because even over the vinegar-stench of the refinery and the odour of rotting vegetation, he could still smell Eames, and Eames smelled like something seriously pleasurable.

From the echoes of voices, distant traffic, his own heartbeat and Eames’ ragged breath, Arthur knew there was open space off to their left. “In here,” he said, ducking through a gap in the fence.

“This is a dead end,” said Eames with remarkable nonchalance, following Arthur. “We’ll be cornered like rats.”

Fuck, Arthur even liked his _voice_ , and he thought he’d become bored of the more refined British accents half a century ago. Still, Eames was looking at him with exasperation. Arthur couldn’t really blame him.

“Trust me,” he said, because Eames was about to get a surprise.

Arthur’d noted the salient details of their location -- a loading-bay backing onto heavy steel doors; a couple of battered shipping containers; a mesh fence topped with razor wire; a patch of bare, crumbling concrete -- as soon as he’d slowed. Now he reached out, grabbed one corner of the nearest shipping container (MAERSK, it said under the graffiti tags) and hauled it across the entrance from the alleyway. It made a hell of a racket, but it wasn’t as though their pursuers didn’t know where they were. The point wasn’t to hide: it was to put half a ton of metal between Eames (and Arthur) and the guys with guns.

(The _other_ point, okay, was to surprise Eames: to get him staring gape-mouthed in a way that was both flattering and promising. His mouth …)

“Well, fuck me,” said Eames with forced insouciance, as though he hadn’t just done a classic double-take.

“Later, Mr Eames,” said Arthur.

“Wait,” said Eames, head jerking round. His eyes narrowed. “Who _are_ you, exactly?”

 _Who_ , not _what_ , Arthur noted. “My name’s Arthur, I’m on your side, and I’ll be _very_ disappointed if you can’t bring yourself to trust me.”

He took a moment to assess Eames’ reaction: generally positive, and Arthur was pretty sure there was a spark of something more than mere positivity. Yeah, Eames was checking him out. Arthur returned the favour.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Arthur,” said Eames, holding out his hand. Arthur took it in a firm grip: no use hiding what he was, though he’d bet Eames had never encountered one of his kind before. For one thing, Arthur couldn’t imagine anyone having this man and letting him go.

Eames was _definitely_ checking him out, quick flickering glances at his mouth, his eyes, his flesh -- the back of his hand looked like polished marble against Eames’ tanned, dirty skin -- and returning again and again to meet his gaze. Arthur let his smile warm.

“Mr Eames,” he said, “believe me when I tell you that you’re not a disappointment.” Beyond the shipping container, Crouch and his thug were arguing. There was a dull blow, and more swearing. Arthur hoped the guy had broken his toes.

“What now, Arthur?” said Eames, ignoring the ruckus.

“Now,” said Arthur, still holding Eames’ hand and drinking in the heady cocktail of pulse and sweat and pheromones. “Do you happen to know of a discreet hotel within thirty minutes of here?”

“Why thirty minutes?” said Eames.

Arthur glanced up at the low grey overcast. “Because in an hour it’ll be sunny.” This was true: when he added, “and I don’t care for sunlight,” he was lying. Could Eames tell the difference? Probably not. He didn’t know Arthur well enough yet.

“I …” began Eames, and Arthur could spot a pointless protest when he heard one. He put his free hand over Eames’ lush, hot mouth, leant in, and smiled more broadly.

Eames looked kind of dazed, and his heartbeat was faster now, as fast as when he’d been running. Still, he looked Arthur right in the eye, and smirked, and said, “Why, Arthur, do I _look_ like the sort of chap who keeps a list of seedy, by-the-hour hotels?”

Arthur let the silence stretch for long enough that Eames could back down, roll over (figuratively, though hell, that was a gorgeous image) and obey. But Eames did nothing except stare back at him.

“Perhaps not,” said Arthur at last. “But one decent hotel should be enough.”

Eames eyed the shipping container (beyond which Crouch and Co were still arguing) doubtfully. “If we can get to the main road,” he began.

“This way,” said Arthur, taking his hands off Eames with some regret. He turned and hooked his fingers into the mesh fence and simply _ripped_ , leaving an Eames-sized exit onto a narrow, overgrown path. If he’d been alone he’d have gone up, onto the factory roof and away: people seldom looked up. But vertical routes weren’t an option with Eames in tow. “Coming?”

The factory plot was a confused jumble of paths, sheds and empty lots. Arthur navigated them through it with only one wrong turning, and he broke the padlock on the main gate and let them both out onto a deserted, brick-paved side street. Off to his left he could hear the roar of traffic. He hoped that was the main road Eames’d meant.

“Now what?”

“We get a cab,” said Eames. “Through the tunnel.”

“Isn’t there anything this side of the river?”

“Only the Holiday Inn,” said Eames.

“That’ll do,” said Arthur. “We need to get off the streets --”

“Holiday Inn security’s shit. The Radisson’s … discreet.”

“Okay,” said Arthur. He liked the way Eames thought. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

By some miracle -- or perhaps it was Arthur’s improbable luck rubbing off on Eames already -- there was a minicab outside the corner shop, its engine idling. Arthur stood back and let Eames do the talking. A local accent would be less memorable than an American voice, and Eames’ voice slid smoothly down the social scale as he negotiated with the driver.

Arthur’s nerves, still atuned to the chase, jangled as the car went down into the tunnel, stop-start, brake lights and car horns, gloom, the weight and noise of the river above them, why would anyone put a fucking _bend_ in a tunnel, what --

Eames’ hand drifted, as if by accident, to cover his own. The light pressure was enough to drag Arthur back into the moment. He was instantly, acutely aware of Eames again, of the way his weight pressed against the vinyl carseat, the rhythm he was tapping in time with the insipid chart ballad on the radio. Every exposed inch of Arthur’s skin could _feel_ Eames like radiation. He could smell Eames’ drying sweat and the changing odour was tantalising.

He glanced at Eames again and again, flickery-fast, too fast for Eames (or their apparently-oblivious driver) to register. Took in a day’s worth of stubble, the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the flare of his nostril. Admired the curve of his throat, the muscles that braced his neck. Extrapolating from what he could see, he constructed a mental sketch of Eames’ probable physique. Eames’ mouth … fuck. Arthur’s palate was prickling with saliva. He _wanted_. He wanted to get those clothes out of the way, taste Eames’ sweat at the source, feel that strength pushing against him.

For a brief moment Arthur regretted the ease with which he’d neutralised Crouch and his sidekick. He’d have liked to see Eames in a fight, getting physical, taking them down. On the other hand, it would have delayed matters. And very soon now -- Arthur blinked against the thundery light as the cab finally emerged from the tunnel -- he’d have Eames to himself.

He wondered what Eames was thinking.

North of the river was another world, one that screamed wealth and luxury and ease. The Radisson was a skyscraper of glass and steel. Arthur felt his spine unstiffening. He had no intention of staying in London for more than one night (though he was intrigued as to how the papers would report the results of his latest assignment) but there was no use in roughing it while he -- while _they_ were here.

Eames paid the driver (“keep the change, mate”) and trailed silently after Arthur as he charmed the receptionist into losing a prior reservation for one of the penthouse suites. She didn’t raise an eyebrow at the mud on their shoes, or their lack of luggage, just handed Arthur two keycards, reeled off a list of services and facilities, and waved them towards the elevators.

“Well,” said Eames, once the doors had closed. “This is nice.”

Arthur made a non-committal noise, staring at Eames’ reflection in the mirrored ceiling and wondering how best to persuade Eames to stick around. Wondering what Eames expected to happen, once the two of them were alone behind a locked door.

Arthur took in the details of the space between the elevator and the suite -- dark blue wool carpet, abstract art, ice machine -- only peripherally. His attention was on Eames, the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride (his right foot was sore, but that was probably from running in those shoes), the way his eyes were bluer now than they’d been outside.

He let Eames open the door, and followed him in. Only his excellent reflexes stopped him walking right into Eames, who’d pivotted to face him.

Arthur didn’t do surprise. He raised an eyebrow, and turned to lock the door behind them both.

“Before this goes any further,” Eames said amiably, folding his arms across his chest and looking Arthur in the eye, “we should probably clarify a couple of minor details.”

Arthur leaned back against the door. Eames probably thought he’d gotten Arthur cornered in the narrow entryway. His stance was certainly that of a man blocking the only available route. Arthur could’ve taken him one-handed.

“What do you want me to clarify?” he said, with deliberate condescension.

Eames’ jaw tightened. “Who you are.” A pause. “ _What_ you are.”

Arthur had resigned himself decades ago to human frailty. He’d always had to rein himself in, quash the urge to use his preternatural strength and agility to overwhelm his partners. On the (extremely rare) occasions when he’d let his control slip, he’d left bruises, broken bones, _frightened_ his bedmates. Quite aside from the fact that fear left a sour taste in the blood, this was less than optimal. Arthur didn’t fool himself that his lovers were drawn to his bed solely by sexual attraction, but neither did he get off on the fantasy (too easily the reality) of forcing anyone.

In Eames, though -- strong and quick and lithe, _not afraid_ , he might’ve finally found someone who could be … not an equal, never that. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But maybe, maybe a match.

“Me?” said Arthur. “I’m the guy between you and the door.”

He expected -- hell, _hoped_ \-- that Eames would rush him, or at least step closer. Instead he huffed exasperation, which smelled of gin-tobacco-mint, and beneath it all that glow of _Eames_ , and tapped a finger against his forearm. “Arthur, forgive me if this is an impertinent question, but would I be correct in thinking you’re not exactly … human?”

Arthur chuckled. “I’m impressed you can keep a straight face, asking that.”

Eames said nothing: nothing aloud, at least, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth and the arch of his eyebrow expressed his opinion with perfect clarity.

“What if I tell you you’re right?” Arthur said coolly. “What do you think you can do about it?”

Eames shrugged. “I shouldn’t think I’d need to _do_ anything about it. You’ve saved my arse from a pair of tooled-up East End losers, and you’re treating me to a night in a posh hotel. Not really cause for concern, is it?” He stepped back, glancing at the room beyond them -- pale wood, beaded blinds, London grey and hazy beyond -- and returned his gaze, full of good humour, to Arthur. “I just like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“Someone who’s in need of your professional skills,” said Arthur smoothly.

“Is that all?” said Eames, and Arthur was pretty sure that was a genuine pout.

“Maybe not,” said Arthur. “Maybe I’d like to … get to know you better.” Fuck, that sounded lame: but Eames’ smile meant it didn’t matter.

“Mutual,” said Eames. His eyes were darker, the pupils dilated, and Arthur could smell his body warming. “Perhaps I’d like to get to know you, too. I’m a fellow who appreciates a little… reciprocity.”

“You’re remarkably laid back for a guy who’s walked into a hotel room with a stranger,” said Arthur, suddenly sick of banter. “A stranger who’s older and faster and stronger, who’s not human any more, who could kill you and make it look like natural causes. Who --”

“Are you going to?” said Eames, bright-eyed with amusement. “Kill me? I confess I’d thought you had something more… pleasant in mind.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Mr Eames,” said Arthur. “No, let me be specific: I’m not going to do any damage that a few days’ rest and plenty of fluids won’t fix.”

“What _are_ you going to do, Arthur? And do I get a say in the matter?”

“I’m going to touch you,” said Arthur, lowering his voice and taking one slow, obvious step towards Eames. “And if you want me to stop, I will.” _I’ll try_. His self-restraint felt physical, like iron bands around his body. He honestly wasn’t sure any more if he could let Eames out of this room without … without touching him.

“That sounds … lovely,” said Eames, and oh, he was blissfully sincere: there were plenty of tells when a guy was turned on, and Arthur had a great deal of practice at spotting them. “Well, there’s really no reason to delay, is there?”

Arthur had to agree, but Eames was pretty much a sure thing at this point, and Arthur wanted to make Eames want him the way he wanted, _craved_ Eames.

“I need a shower,” said Eames over his shoulder, turning away. “But can I have a kiss, first?”

It was charmingly old-fashioned, but there was something sharper than mere charm in the way that Eames’ crooked teeth pressed against his lower lip.

“Oh yes,” said Arthur, and closed the distance between them.

Eames’ mouth tasted as good as the rest of him smelled. Okay, objectively he tasted slightly stale, of cigarettes and coffee and gin and pepper. _Subjectively_ , though (which was what counted) he tasted glorious. Delicious. Arthur couldn't wait to taste the rest of him -- and yeah, it wouldn’t be a hardship to feel that mouth like a branding-iron on his own skin. Only Arthur would be able to see the marks. Arthur, and maybe Eames.

“Right,” said Eames, drawing back from the kiss. He was panting like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring. “Shower. Then --”

“No,” said Arthur. “Don’t shower. I like … I like the way you smell.”

Eames’ eyebrows went up again. “At least let me get out of this jacket. I’m stifling.”

“Be my guest,” said Arthur, and crossed his arms over his own chest to keep from ripping the garment to shreds.

Eames wasn’t making a show of it. He tossed his jacket carelessly in the direction of an armchair, and didn’t look at where it had landed. His shirt was dark with sweat under the arms. It clung and stretched over a splendidly-muscled torso. He loosened his tie one-handed, and let it drop, not taking his eyes from Arthur’s.

“Carry on,” said Arthur, and was surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

Off came the shirt, and… yeah. Eames was inked (which Arthur hadn’t anticipated) and scarred, and hairy, and there were yellowing bruises on his left bicep where someone’d grabbed hold of him, but _fuck_. His body, his physique, was a work of art, with all the directed, inspired effort that the word implied. Eames was an artist, all right, and right now Arthur didn’t give a damn about the documents he might forge or the paintings he might recreate: he wanted to explore Eames’ masterpiece, the warm living sculpture right there in front of him.

Eames was smirking at him, as relaxed as though he stripped every day for strangers, and enjoyed it. Arthur was going to wipe that look off his face. He had no intention of giving Eames more than he could take, but he was pretty sure that Eames could take a lot more than… than anyone’d been able to for a long, long time.

Eames’ hands were at the buckle of his belt, and he cocked an eyebrow at Arthur, questioning.

“Don’t stop on my account,” said Arthur.

“You don’t seem particularly interested,” parried Eames, his smirk broadening into full-blown challenge. “Are you just going to watch, or were you planning on participating?”

“Do you _want_ me to participate?” said Arthur. It was a sincere question, even if he was pretty sure of the answer. Right now he could still let Eames walk out of that door, no more marked than he was now. Let him walk away. Let him go.

Arthur had no problem admitting to himself that he didn’t want to do that.

“As I was saying earlier, about reciprocity --”

Abruptly -- from Eames’ point of view, instantaneously -- Arthur was right up in Eames’ space, close enough to feel the patterned warmth from the tattoos on his skin. He could hear the surge of Eames’ blood in his veins, the thunder of his heart, the small secret noises of Eames’ body wanting Arthur. And Arthur _wanted_ , oh, he wanted to drink Eames in, to soak up his warmth, to push him ‘til he found his, their, limits. He wanted, very badly, to touch.

He took a slow deep breath, inhaling Eames, opening his senses to their utmost. Closed his eyes, the better to -- and _fuck_ , Eames had reached out first, Eames was touching him. His hand on Arthur’s jaw jolted and burnt and shook Arthur like electricity.

“You feel …”

 _Weird?_ wondered Arthur. _Cold? Inhuman? Freakish?_ He’d heard them all. He stared steadily back at Eames, daring him to say it.

“Amazing,” said Eames at last, frowning a little as though he couldn’t find a better word.

Arthur smiled at him -- the real smile this time, the way he’d smiled before he Changed -- and turned his head slightly, pushing against Eames’ hand like an affectionate cat. Eames made a happy approving noise, and ran the tip of his finger down Arthur’s throat, pulling his collar aside. His mouth was sudden and hot on Arthur’s skin.

“It won’t leave a mark,” Arthur warned him.

“I don’t need marks,” said Eames against his jugular. “Are you this cold all over? It’s going to feel fantastic when you fuck me.”

Arthur had to tilt his head back and just breathe for a moment. The hunger leapt and sparked. He hadn’t cheated, hadn’t exerted his powers of persuasion, or weighted his words with the subtle subvocalisations that inclined prey to surrender. Eames wasn’t prey, wasn’t scared. Eames wanted him.

“Arthur?” murmured Eames, his hands swift and careful on the knot of Arthur’s tie.

“It’s going to feel fantastic,” said Arthur. Fuck, he sounded … drunk, or something. Eames was pressing against him, unbuttoning his shirt, about as far from passive as anyone could be. He dragged the shirt off one-handed and plastered himself against Arthur, cold skin to warm, claustrophobically hot and close and hard.

Because, yeah, Eames’ dick was a solid pressure against Arthur’s hip (and Arthur’s body was returning the compliment) but Eames’ _arms_ were solid muscle, it felt like, and his biceps were massive. Arthur curled his fingers around Eames’ arm, testing, and felt the pump of blood under his fingertips. He trailed his other hand down over the ripple of Eames’ abs to his navel, and Eames’ breath against his jaw went ragged.

Then Eames kissed him fiercely, pressing him back against the wall -- hell, they were still in the entryway, and there was a perfectly good bed in here somewhere -- and Arthur was _letting_ him, because it felt fucking _amazing_ to be dominated. Sure, he could peel Eames off him, leave him gasping and sobbing on the floor, but why would he want to? This was glorious.

Arthur broke the kiss to nip, gently and then not, at Eames’ throat. “I’m going to bite you,” he promised. “You make me …” No, fuck it, he could control himself. He _could_. “I’m going to draw blood, and I’m going to make you come.

Eames groaned, a base animal sound, and his hands were on Arthur’s ass, yanking him closer. _Fuck_ , he was strong. “Just … fucking … _now_ , Arthur, eh?”

Arthur had held back quite long enough. He shoved against Eames suddenly, and for a moment they were balanced together, irresistible force and immovable object: then Arthur shoved harder, and Eames let himself be shoved, back towards the bed, sprawling down on the shiny coverlet. Arthur bore him down -- and okay, he wasn’t, he’d never been built like Eames, but he knew how to use his body -- and pinned him, flushed and panting and writhing up against Arthur’s grip in a poor pretence of attempted escape.

“I don’t suppose,” said Arthur, staring down at Eames, “that you’re used to submitting to anyone.”

“I can take it or leave it,” said Eames, his heartbeat jittering and speeding as he twisted under, grinned up at Arthur. “Either way.”

“Both ways?”

Eames’ eyes were all pupil now, just a narrow ring of colour (greener than before) around the black. “ _Fuck_ , yes.”

"I'll hold you to that, Mr Eames," said Arthur.

"So many promises," said Eames, "and you won't even let me get my hands on you."

"Fine," said Arthur. He let go of Eames and rocked back onto his heels. Couldn't take his eyes off Eames lying there spread out for him, cock straining against the fly of his trousers, belt unbuckled, flushed and hot and desperate for what Arthur -- yeah.

Eames curled up (his stomach taut and rippling) to attack Arthur's own belt, and then his zipper: then his hand was cupping Arthur through his briefs, and Arthur hissed and bucked, briefly, into Eames' firm hot hand. It was almost too much. "Stay there," he ordered, and slid backwards, inelegantly, off the bed, struggling out of the rest of his clothes and letting them fall.

By the time he was naked, Eames was wriggling out of his own trousers. He didn't bother taking off his socks, and Arthur really didn't give a shit. He'd see Eames' feet sooner or later. Right now he was more interested in the rest of Eames: hard cock pressing against his navel, smearing precome against black ink and pale flesh; Eames' mouth all red… It felt like far too long since they'd last kissed: Arthur crawled up the bed and lowered himself over Eames, knee to knee, cock to cock, chest to chest, and kissed him again, relishing the feel of Eames' pulse in all the places where they touched.

This was definitely too much and still not enough. Eames was gasping, and he wasn't the only one. "Lube," said Arthur breathlessly, breaking the kiss. "I've got to... do you have anything?"

"Fuck," said Eames. "Good hotel. Bathroom?"

It didn't take more than a second for Arthur to make sense of that. Eames let out a startled noise as he launched himself off the bed and went in search of something, _anything_ , fuck, he'd do Eames dry if he --

"Hand lotion," he announced, dumping the tube on Eames' chest.

"Fuck, you're fast," said Eames admiringly: then, more serious, "Do we need ...?"

"You can't catch what I've got by fucking," said Arthur, and didn't add that he was pretty much immune to any disease Eames might be carrying.

Then it was all on: a frantic tangle of hands, Arthur's fingers in Eames, Eames' leg in the crook of Arthur's arm, Eames' teeth in Arthur's lip. Arthur couldn't even remember the last time he'd let someone draw blood from him. Good thing the stories were all lies, or Eames'd be ...

He put that thought aside for later, because the shock of anger he felt at the idea needed serious consideration. Right now he had Eames under him, hot and human and painfully aroused, _begging_ to be fucked, begging to be bitten.

Eames groaned when Arthur pushed ungently inside. Arthur paused for a moment, fascinated by the stutter of Eames' pulse around his dick, the way Eames' own erection softened and then firmed against his hand. The cords of Eames' neck stood out in sharp relief as his head went back, and he was making the most amazing sounds, noises that made Arthur want to lose control and fuck and drink and _take_.

Which was pretty much what Eames was demanding. "Oh _fuck_ yes, Arthur, I can feel you all the way inside me, cold and hard, it's fucking fantastic, c'mon, do it harder, do it, do, _fuck_."

Arthur obliged. He fucked Eames harder than he'd thought any human would enjoy, and Eames took it all, opened wide -- Arthur could hear his hips pop and flex -- and gasped Arthur's name like a drowning man. He was getting close, Arthur's hand jacking him fast and wet with precome, his muscles clenching and releasing, and Arthur wanted to taste his blood at the moment of climax. He shifted position, pulling Eames up towards him, and got his mouth on Eames' throat, tonguing the vein, using the edge of his teeth: and that was it, Eames was coming, and Arthur bit hard and tasted hot-metal-salt, and went over the edge after Eames.

* * *

Arthur drifted. It was always the same, after: a timeless mindless state of euphoria, of physical well-being. But this wasn't quite the same as other times, because right now he wanted to keep Eames close. _Eames_ didn't make him feel claustrophobic, feverish, itchy. Eames felt wonderful against him. Arthur drifted.

When he finally opened his eyes, the room was much darker than he'd expected. Had he slept? Oddly, he didn't mind the thought of falling asleep with Eames. Which was unsettling in itself, because Arthur never _slept_ , not literally, with anybody. Too dangerous.

"Storm's coming," murmured Eames, right next to him. "About time."

Arthur rolled over and buried his face in Eames' armpit, breathing in sweat and sex and -- "Fuck, that stuff stinks," he complained. "What do they even put in it?"

"Sea minerals," said Eames, and Arthur could feel the laughter he was suppressing. "Any port in a storm, eh?"

"I'll make sure --" said Arthur, and stopped because hey, what did _Eames_ want from this? A quick fuck and no questions asked? Arthur discovered that he wanted... he wanted to take Eames everywhere. Yeah, he wanted to fuck and be fucked, he wanted Eames' blood. But it was more than that. It'd been more than that since the first faint, elusive trail of scent in the print shop.

"Too hot," said Eames, extricating himself from Arthur's embrace. He rolled off the bed (quick and lithe, so Arthur couldn't have been as rough as he'd thought) and stretched, affording Arthur a splendid view of the muscles bracketing his spine. "Let's see if the window opens."

Arthur padded over to join him, and the two of them stood staring out over the city. The windows of the suite faced west, but the blackest clouds were off to the north. Veils of rain hid the Gherkin, the NatWest tower, the cranes that loomed everywhere. Below them the pavements were empty, dark with recent rain. Upriver, towards Westminster, the sky was clearing: sunlight glinted on glass. Arthur narrowed his eyes against the light, wondering if news of his latest assignment had reached the media yet.

"Fuck," said Eames, next to him. "Arthur, you're ... you're sparkling."

"I know," said Arthur. "It's fucking ridiculous, all right?"

Eames didn't reply, but he reached out and ran his finger along the line of Arthur's jaw, and Arthur shook at his touch. Blood high, he told himself. It doesn't mean ... it doesn't mean anything. He stared out at the distant rain, and tried to think about what he'd be doing this time tomorrow.

"You're amazing," Eames said softly. "Like something out of a dream. You're ... fuck, Arthur. That was... And I like the sparkle." His voice softened, rough with amusement. "Very cool."

Arthur didn't want to be reminded of what he was. Not now. Not while Eames' blood was still warm and rich on his tongue, not with his skin still tingling from pressing against Eames' body. "Fuck off," he said tiredly.

"If that's what you want," said Eames, and for a moment, though he didn't move, it was as though he'd drawn away from Arthur. As though he was already at the door, out of the room, gone.

" _Fuck_ ," said Arthur, and his hands were clenched ready to hit something. "Eames -- no, that's not --"

"It's been great," said Eames, and his voice was all wrong, polite and empty. "But I'm sure you've other business to --"

"Eames. Will you just." Arthur took a moment to breathe, and maybe that was a mistake, because all he could smell was Eames. Eames and that revolting hand lotion, and Arthur wanted to laugh, or maybe cry.

Instead he turned to Eames, and before Eames could move away Arthur'd pulled him in for a kiss, long and slow and sweet. It wasn't the way they'd kissed before. Arthur wanted to be able to kiss Eames like that again, and again.

"I wasn't lying about needing some documents," he said, right against Eames's mouth. He could taste Eames' blood where he'd bitten his lip. "I'm heading to Cuba next."

"Mmm," said Eames. "Yes, I'm sure I can rustle something up for you. Send me a postcard, eh?"

"I was hoping," said Arthur, and stopped.

"Hoping?" said Eames, and Arthur couldn't read his expression at all.

"I could use a forger on this job," said Arthur. "If you don't have anything urgent lined up."

"It’s about time I took a holiday," said Eames. "London's ... dull, this time of year."

 _I'll make you shine_ , thinks Arthur, but all he says aloud is, "It's a deal, Mr Eames"

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Profound thanks to **the_ragnarok** , without whom this would never have been finished, let alone posted: you're a fabulous cheerleader!


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